Still Her SEAL (ASSIGNMENT: Caribbean Nights Book 10) (7 page)

When there’s a firm knock on the door thirty minutes later, I force myself not to bolt up. Lilah slides me a laughing look. Yowly shoots off the back step, damn it. Clearly, the cat likes to stick to a schedule and unexpected not-quite-ex visits (because yeah, my happy nipples are like Ro radar) are not part of the cat’s list of approved activities.

Lilah sets her tablet down. “Your swain?”

“Come in,” I bellow, ignoring her. The door swings open and yes, both Lilah and I just sit and stare for a minute. I have a whole new appreciation for our military—because not only do they defend our way of life, but they make damn fine-looking men. Although Ro’s no longer active duty, he’s still one hard-bodied son of a bitch. His broad shoulders fill my doorway and those legs of his could double as a national monument. It’s not just that he’s big—everywhere—it’s that he moves like a lethal weapon, all tight control and leashed power. If shit went down, he’d be right there between me and trouble, and that body of his promises that nothing and no one would touch me.

“Wow,” Lilah whispers.

Nope. She’s not wrong.

If marriage were just a matter of looks, Ro and I would be hitched for the next sixty years or so. His looks aren’t open for debate. He’s hot. Worse, he’s hot in that real man way all the Hollywood pretty boys can’t quite manage. He prowls into the room with the confidence of a man who knows he can handle whatever life throws at him—likely because he’s survived far worse. War heroes don’t earn their stripes because they hug the couch. He has a small scar by the corner of his left eye, and his hands are battered.

When we were newly weds, I pestered him until he sent me a picture of himself in uniform. He sent something that resembled a professional mug shot. He stared at the photographer, all clean shaven and remote in his Navy dress uniform. I emailed him back and suggested a do-over with a few buttons undone. Show some chest, maybe pose lying down. A gal can fantasize, right? He never wrote me back, which was the first of many clues that we were through. Today’s Ro is more casual. His worn jeans cling to his legs, outlining powerful thighs and practically begging me to ogle the poor man. He wears a faded Search and SEALs T-shirt and a pair of steel-toed work boots. His sunglasses are tucked into the neck of his shirt, and the thick dive watch on his wrist is the kind of hardware you could launch a nuclear war with.

“Ladies.” He nods his head at us and then stands there. He’s not nervous or ill at ease. He’s going to wait me out, and there’s no way to hurry him or rile him up. He’s a fucking iceberg man.

On the other hand? I like him so much better when he’s silent. Then we’re not fighting and I’m not feeling like shit because I’ve gotten it wrong, disappointed yet another person.

He drops down beside me in a crouch. His thigh brushes my shoulder as he leans forward and runs his fingers over the stack of swatches. “Is this a bad time?”

Lilah makes a choking sound. I don’t have to look at her to know her fingers are inching toward her camera. She totally wants to fire off a few shots.

Ro’s already got her number, though. He looks at her. “No pictures.”

He doesn’t make threats or explain consequences. He just utters those two words in a calm, authoritative voice and Lilah falls in line like one of those dogs he trains.

She holds up her fingers and crosses them. “Pinky promise.”

A reluctant grin tugs the corner of his mouth. I try to remember the last time I saw him smile. If I eliminate the moments immediately before, during, or after sex, smiling episodes were kind of few and far between. “Think that’s scout’s honor.”

He reaches over and rearranges Lilah’s fingers, then hooks his own pinky around hers. “Deal,” he says simply.

She looks at their intertwined fingers. “Crap.”

“Yeah?” He lets go and sinks back onto his heels between us.

“I don’t suppose you believe crossing your fingers behind your back negates a promise?” She sounds hopeful, which just proves that even the most efficient of Gal Fridays is capable of delusion.

Naturally, he shakes his head. Ro lives and breathes by a very simple code of honor. He does what’s right, no matter what it costs. He’s always been willing to do that, and he never goes back on his word.

“You’re out of luck,” I tell her.

She sighs. “But he’s so fucking serious. It’s cute, Hindi.”

“And he’s right here,” he says dryly.

There’s a pause while we both admire the new scenery in my bungalow. He smells good. He’s not the kind of man who wears cologne—it’s like he just goes through life, doing his thing, and that’s what you get. He smells like the sea and the outdoors, something big and free and as dangerous as it is pretty.

“Give us a moment,” he says to Lilah.

This is code for
leave
and she pouts. She knows she can’t do her job, documenting my antics for the new season, if she’s not present. Plus, she’s definitely enjoying herself.

So she stalls. “I have to leave?”

He nods gravely. “Some shit’s private.”

With Ro?
All
shit is private. He’d never air his dirty laundry in public. I know he likes to live life on the down-low. When he was in the service, he was Mr. Secrecy, never able to talk about the missions he went on. His emails from the field were short, blunt updates on the weather and inquiries about the state of my health and underwear. He’s a raptor, hunting high in the sky, rather than a peacock. He’d never use two words where one would do.

“We’ve got married stuff to do,” I tell Lilah, mimicking Ro’s solemn tones. Yes. Yes, I plan on stirring stuff up. It’s just not possible to resist. “Shit to consummate. Hot loving to catch up on. You’re gonna have a front row seat at a porn show if you don’t get a move on.”

She bounces off the couch, and I can practically see her fingers itching for her camera. “And would Mr. Alvarez care to comment on today’s agenda?”

Ro looks at Lilah, then me. Nope. I still can’t tell what he’s thinking. Just to hedge my bets, I try and shoot a quick look at the front of his jeans, but his hands hang down between his thighs, blocking my view. Cheater.

“Ro? You got anything for Lilah?”

Yes, I up my game. If before I was poking the bear with a nice, pointy stick, now I’m whacking him over his recalcitrant head with a club. Ro exhales—not loudly, but I’m so close to him that I feel his breath gust over my cheek—and then he
moves
. Oh my God, the man can move. He scoops Lilah up and sets her outside. The front door clicks shut, he flips the lock, and then he comes for me. Pretty please, he strides across the floor, erasing all the distance between us, and then my back hits the floor, one big hand cupping my head carefully as I crash land, the other pulling my hands up and over. Maybe he can read minds. Maybe he knows exactly what my favorite fantasies are.

Maybe.

Maybe.

Maybe not.

He lowers his not inconsiderable weight onto me. Okay. Being squashed flat is not on my top ten list for fantasies. I like being able to move. And breathing. Breathing
definitely
tops that list—it’s kind of non-negotiable.

And… there’s the familiar frown. Some shit never changes. “We need to talk.”

Rohan

F
uck, I love the way Hindi squeaks. I suddenly have a whole new appreciation for Jack’s attachment to his red rubber doggy bone. When he successfully performs a training task, he gets special alone time with the damned toy, and he goes to town, chewing and pawing at the rubber until the noise is indescribable. I’ll never spoil his fun again, because this is fucking amazing. She makes another funny peep of sound and I want to laugh—and lick her from head to foot, run my mouth all over her and eat her up.

Fuck.

No.

This is
Hindi.
My dick may be having a totally natural reaction to the magnificent tits pressing into my chest, but my head’s got to be smarter than that. Any sexual tension between us is just a case of mistaken identity. Or a flat-out mistake. Yeah, because I flattened her. Not because her mouth turned me on.

“Off,” she grunts. “Air.”

She’s forgotten that I give the orders in this relationship, so it looks like I need to do a little reminding. I give her more of my weight and she makes a wheezing sound, like the air going out of a mattress. Point. Made. I’ve got a good hold on her and I seriously outweigh her in all but the tit department—where she’s world-class—so all she can do is thrash her head while she calls me every name in the book. That’s okay. I know how to wait. Her hair half-tumbles out of that ridiculous little knot and I dodge a flying pencil and some other unidentified object. She’s got all this money and success and yet she still anchors her hair with whatever’s closest instead of some designer doohickey. Rebellious curls spring out in all directions, and for a moment I lose my focus, imagining what would happen if I slipped those last few anchors free. Her hair would come down, frame her face, kiss her shoulders.

Hindi is not an organized person. This quality can be charming or drive me bat-shit crazy; I’ve always secretly admitted it was a good thing we never actually lived together, because I’d have come home one day and discovered we had no power and no water because she’d forgotten to pay the bills. It’s not intentional oversight on her part, but mundane details are simply not part of the Hindi-verse.

Case in point? Her bungalow. I’m pretty sure the rental came with a floor and the usual complement of furniture, but the place looks like a fabric store mated with Aladdin’s cave. Or exploded. Bits and pieces are everywhere. I pick something pink and silky off the side of her head while I wait for her to calm down. Talking to her now wouldn’t be effective, plus my dick’s plenty happy where it is.

Combat is all about winning. No one goes into battle fucking intent on losing—but the army who focuses best is the one with the edge. I ignore the colorful chaos and target my bride.

“We need to talk,” I tell her.

She sticks her tongue out at me. Pretty sure that’s a
fuck me
that comes out of her pretty, wicked mouth.

“Is that an invitation?” I ease up so she can suck in a breath. This has the added bonus of shoving her tits against me when she takes her window of opportunity.

And then she hesitates. Right. As if she really wants to have sex with me, her should-have-been-ex. There may be some leftover chemistry between us, but that’s apparently because we’ve both got a thing for hate sex. Or maybe a hidden dark side that’s into BDSM or other painful shit—because there’s absolutely no way we could have a normal relationship. Or any relationship at all. And before I can ask her if she means it, if she’s really thinking about sex with me, I roll off her. Distance right now would be prudent.

“Bastard,” she mutters, slapping me on the chest as she eases into a sitting position. As if she could hurt me.

“Talk,” I remind her.

“Or what? You’ll put me in a chokehold? Time out? The naughty corner?”

Jesus. Yes. She has no idea how much that last option appeals. I can work with the fantasy of her bare, upturned ass bouncing on my knee. My hand making sexy contact with her skin, not to hurt, but because it’s one hell of a fucking game and Hindi definitely needs someone to take her in hand. She’s always been just that little bit lost and sex makes for one hell of a road map.

She shuffles some of the colored squares in front of her. If there’s a pattern forming, I don’t recognize it. “About what?”

Already this operation is not a success.
Focus
.

“Our divorce,” I tell her. There’s a beat of silence and then Hindi stabs a square of hot pink fabric onto a gigantic poster board. From the way the pin slices through the material, I infer that Hindi isn’t feeling particularly friendly—so score one for me.

Military tactics are simple at heart. You hit your opponent hard, you hit him fast, and you don’t hold back. You get bonus points for hitting the spot most likely to hurt and if you do it when he’s least expecting it. Yesterday, Hindi ambushed me on the beach, so today I’m switching things up. I’m bringing the war to her. If her objective is to win a divorce from me, my new objective is to make her work for it.

She leans forward, pinning a second, lacy bit onto the board. Her shirt rides up and her denim cut-offs head down, stopping barely south of the Promised Land. The material stretches, gaping teasingly over the soft, shadowy hollows where her legs meet other, more interesting parts of her body and the edge of her very pretty panties.

Danger. Imagine me and my divorce plans as a squad moving down a trail. I’ve got eyes on my surroundings, scanning for enemy movement because I’m not going in unprotected. Hindi shifts, her shorts riding down, flashing me a baby blue thong. Derailed, my dick immediately aborts today’s mission, because the only position it’s interested in is missionary. Or cowgirl, pole position, doggy style, or a little stairway to heaven action. Any and all work for my dick—and overtime is definitely on the table.

Stick with the plan.

“I’ve set up an appointment for us with a family practice lawyer,” I say, deciding to ignore said dick.